


Push and Pull

by Garotte8Goodnight



Series: Two Assholes and a Murdertoddler [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: HYDRA Trash Party, M/M, blanket warnings apply, consensual breathplay, not explicitly described
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 13:14:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7641886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Garotte8Goodnight/pseuds/Garotte8Goodnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything about their lives is give and take, a carefully choreographed dance that only they know the steps to. </p>
<p>Brock likes to push.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Push and Pull

**Author's Note:**

> Like I needed another series amirite? Hopefully series will be regularly updated - neutralchaos915 over on tumblr is the most wonderful RP partner ever, and there are already several instalments to follow

~*~

Brock is on edge; it's late Monday evening, everyone else has already headed home for the night, and he's stuck here doing paperwork after a weekend wasted on an op in the middle of nowhere, to take out some idiot way below his pay grade.

He had plans this weekend.

Rumlow is dedicated to his job sure, aside from all the ‘save the world’ bullshit he gets satisfaction out of it; out of the order that comes with the lifestyle, a daily regimen to follow, the rush that comes of having men under his command. He's never as calm as when he has a gun in his hands and a target between his crosshairs. Master of life and death. This political bureaucracy bullcrap though? Seriously not his thing. Never has been.

  
He likes to be doing things, to keep his hands occupied with brute physicality, he wasn't made for a desk job.

Around eleven he tosses his mission report down on his desk in frustration; it's only half done, but it can wait until morning when, hopefully, he'll be in a better frame of mind. If he tries to push through now it will end up the (second) least professional report ever written; and the last time he called a target a self-centred asswipe Fury made him redo the entire thing. Fury is a self-centred asswipe too. Evidently.

He grabs his jacket from the back of his chair - it's ergonomic and swivels and one of the few comforts he'll allow himself, because if Brock is ever on paperwork detail of all the fucking things, he at least wants to be comfortable whilst doing so.

He yanks the office door open with slightly more force than was strictly necessary, and internally winces at the noise it makes as it collides with the filing cabinet. He startles a little when he sees the figure leaning casually against the wall of the corridor, though he's sure not to show it.

The lights are dimmed slightly because it's after hours, and like all government agencies they've got S.H.I.E.L.D in on this new energy saving Eco bullshit. He's not sure Jack Rollins at 6"2 is any less intimidating in daylight.

Brock rolls his eyes; "Going for the creepy rapist aesthetic now are we?"

Jack scoffs and bumps his side with his own as he falls in step beside him. "Why, because I'm hiding out in dimly lit corridors after home time?"

Brock grins up at him, teeth flashing and eyes crinkling at the corner; "Actually I was talking about your face, but yeah, you should probably also stop stalking me."

Jack doesn't rise to it, gives Brock an imperceptible look that's simultaneously derisive and condescendingly fond. "Rummy you'd miss me if I did and you know it."

Brock lets the fire door slam behind him instead of holding it, and there's a moment of triumph that flares in his gut when he hears the dull thud that says Jack has walked into it.

Normally he's considerate enough to mind Jacks blindside for him, always stands to his left and has his back but.. He's not above taking advantage when he has a point to make.

He'll probably regret that later. No, he knows he'll regret that. Jack will make sure of it. He can't wait.

~*~

Jack doesn't talk to him entire ride home; the streets are quiet, most of the city has settled in for the night, and Brock doesn't dare flick the radio on to break the silence. There's electricity in the air that crackles beneath his skin, raises the small hairs at the nape of his neck - it's enough to set his teeth on edge.

He's half expecting it when the instant they're through the door of Jack's house the taller man slams up against the nearest wall, pinned with a single large hand around his throat. Brock's grin is nothing short of wicked too; all sharp teeth and dark eyes. Jack, in contrast, is like stone.

It's been weeks since the last time this happened, and he feels the satisfaction coil in his gut. He needs this. Not that he'd ever say as much.

"So.." Jack says and waits.

Brock schools his expression; is careful not to react as Jack's other hand comes up to trace up his stomach and over his chest, clearly defined lines almost visible through the thin cotton of his t-shirt.

"Care to explain your little stunt back there..?"

Brock doesn't break eye contact, refuses to duck his head in the face of Jack's disapproval. If he shivers slightly as Jack runs a single digit over the angular edges of his collar bones it's because it's late and the heating hasn't been on for hours, nothing more.

Jack's expression is impenetrable, and Brock decides it's best to give him an answer now than suffer more for his silence later. He bites his lip and peers up at the taller man through a fan of dark lashes.

"Sorry.. Sir."

Whatever Jack was looking for that obviously wasn't it; he keeps his left hand wrapped around Brock's throat while he grabs both of the smaller man's wrists in his right. Leans his weight against Brock's front, so the entire long muscular line of him has him unable to squirm against the wall.

"You need to apologise properly."

Brock feels his breath hitch a little in his throat - he can feel the hardness of Jack pressed against his hip, and he resists the urge to grind forwards against him. He has not been given permission to do so. He nods, finally breaking eye contact; allows his head to drop forwards so his forehead is nestled against the taller man's muscular chest.

He can feel the huff of warm breath in his hair where it brushes against the underside of Jack's jaw.

The grip at his throat and wrists isn't too tight, but Brock is hyper aware of the restrained power coiled in those muscled forearms. Jack could tighten his hold at any moment, and delicate bones would break as easily as sparrows. It's part of the attraction, he thinks, like fucking a loaded weapon with the safety off.

It makes his pulse thrum.

"Yes Sir, m'sorry. Whatever you want."

It's far easier than it used to be to force those words out; this is a dance that has been going on for the last 20 years of Brock's career. There's no love lost between them, but this push and pull of power - like the tide - Brock craves it. Jack has always been more than happy to oblige. His sadism runs deep.

The hand around his throat tightens even as Jack releases his hold on his wrists, forces him down to his knees. He goes without protest, though he feels his bones protesting as he kneels on the hardwood floor; he's certainly not as young as he used to be. It should matter more than it does.

Jack uses his free hand to unbuckle his belt, and the draw of his zip sends a bolt of something straight to Brock's own cock where it lies hard and trapped against his thigh. He squirms a little, desperate for the friction of his uniform against it, but the taller man's hand gives a warning squeeze to his throat in response - cutting off his air supply for a brief moment - and he stills.

Jack's already hard, and as he forces the length of his cock down Brock's throat he takes a minute to appreciate the weight of it against his tongue. Brock's not a fag, but this with Jack, it's become as natural as breathing. Or not breathing, as the case may be. Right now that's proving a little difficult; Jack is built to scale after all.

Brock's always needed.. Something. Back when he was 21 and fresh from the army, Jack, a fellow new recruit at the time, had noticed that unrest - the hyperawareness and cockiness that had been an integral part of his character. He'd been a mess, he had nothing grounding him, and Jack had taken him in hand. He'd known what Brock had needed before he'd even known himself.

Jack isn't gentle with him, keeps one hand on his neck so he can feel the outline of his own cock where he forces it to the back of Brock's throat, the other hand buried in the dark tangle of his normally perfectly coiffed hair.

It's just on the right side of painful and Brock throws himself into the task; hollows his cheeks and does his best to swirl his tongue just the way Jack likes it.

He wouldn't have made it this far without Jack, and he knows it; not that he'd ever tell him. He'd been Commander material sure, but it was raw promise - unrefined. Jack had worked with that. They come as a package deal now; the taller man had even turned down a promotion five years ago, not that Brock is supposed to know about that, because if he was heading his own STRIKE unit he'd not be working with Brock anymore. Brock doesn't want anyone else on his six.

Brock feels Jack's fingers curl in his hair and hums appreciatively, his voice is going to be rough tomorrow, abused throat bruised. He doesn't really care.

Jack allows him to pull back a little so he has more leverage, and he uses his newly gained position to lick and nip at the soft underside of his second's dick, the velvet skin soft against his lower lip. The noises that draws from the other man only serve to make his cock harder - he loves the way this makes Jack come undone. Nobody else gets to see the normally stoic man like this.

No one knows about this of course; sure, everybody at work knows they're close, but anyone would be after being brothers in arms for 20 years. Besides, this is something just for them. If they're each other's medical proxies and Brock spends the occasional seasonal holiday with Jack's family, so what? That doesn't make them gay together or whatever.

This is... necessary. Like anything else that's a part of his job, it's just duty so they can both perform to the best of their abilities.

Jack comes without warning, forcing Brock down on his cock so he chokes on it, trying to swallow around the obstruction in his throat. He hauls him back to his feet afterwards and he stumbles forwards, leaning his weight against the immovable wall of muscle that is Jack. Woodsmoke and old spice.

Strong arms hold him upright on shaky legs, and he lets Jack lead him upstairs to the shower. Stripping him down with careful hands and pressing him back under the steamy spray.

He's not here, barely conscious of the hands that rub shampoo into his dark hair, of the muscled lines of Jack's chest that he rests his face against. He's warm and safe, this is home.

He's still not a fag though. This isn't love or a relationship or whatever. Jack is just.. His. They belong to each other. Just looking after his property. Like oiling his gun.

Jack guides him to bed after they've towelled off, and Brock floats in his own body, bracketed by two strong arms. Clings to him like driftwood for a drowning man.

Sleep rolls over him in waves; dipping at the edges of consciousness, gentle as the tide settling ashore for the night.

~*~


End file.
